


The Matt Murdock Guide to Making Friends

by ceterisparibus



Series: Prompts! [5]
Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Awesome Karen Page, Brett Mahoney needs a raise, Brett Mahoney needs vacation days, Friendship, Gen, Human Disaster Matt Murdock, Identity Reveal, arms trafficking, but who will keep the city safe if Brett Mahoney takes a vacation?, could be pre-getting-together if you ship it, private investigator Karen Page, reference to human trafficking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-27
Updated: 2019-08-29
Packaged: 2020-09-27 14:31:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20409331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceterisparibus/pseuds/ceterisparibus
Summary: Prompt for the Daredevil Exchange: Matt, in his guise as DD, and Karen as a PI end up working on the same case; following the same lead(s). Initially they both keep what they are doing secret, until they end up converging in the same location. Can be shippy or friendship. either is good.For A Silver Sun! Set after an AU version of Season 1 where Matt and Foggy take down Fisk without Karen, who's been working with Ben Urich.(I feel like I maybe went a weird direction with this? I hope it's okay?)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [a_silver_sun](https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_silver_sun/gifts).

“You gotta be more careful, man.”

Matt tried a bit harder than usual to aim his eyes at Foggy’s face, doing his best to appear sincere as he nodded. “I will be. I _am_.”

Since Foggy was currently in the process of cleaning up a mess of bloody gauze and excess stitching from the coffee table, Matt couldn’t exactly blame him for his loud snort of disbelief.

Matt wriggled into a more comfortable position on his couch. “Knives are just a problem.”

“No, Matt, you know what’s a problem?” Foggy’s voice was equal parts exasperation and frustration. “You trying to take down organized crime on your own.”

“So what you’re saying is, you’re offering to come with me.”

Foggy made a shocked squawking sound as he dumped the soiled medical supplies in the trash, then covered it with some crumpled-up paper towels. He was convinced that someone (specifically, one of Matt’s allegedly numerous lady friends) would look in the trash, see the gauze, and immediately conclude that the injury-prone blind man must be an illegal vigilante. “I’m gonna pretend you didn’t say that.”

Fine by Matt. The thought of Foggy getting anywhere close to the kind of things Matt got involved with every night was…not actually funny. Not funny at all. “I should just take Brett.”

“Cool. You guys can bond over taking down the mafia, and then he’ll break your heart when he arrests you for it afterwards. Newsflash: I can’t watch chick flicks and eat ice cream with you if you’re in _jail_.”

“I dunno, I feel like you could probably swing it. You’re a good lawyer.”

Foggy made a weird huffing sound that clearly indicated that he wanted to laugh but thought he shouldn’t reward Matt’s bad behavior. He ended up sounding more like a strangled pigeon, and yes, Matt was familiar with the sound. “Dude, your bulb burnt out again.”

“Which one?”

“Kitchen.” Foggy opened the fridge and grabbed two beers. “How does it burn out if you never use it? Now all we have is your weird billboard light. It looks really morbid in here, Matt.”

“How can a billboard light look morbid?”

“I dunno, it’s this dead yellow color.”

Matt scrunched up his nose, trying to picture it.

“All right, don’t hurt yourself.” Foggy returned with the beers, nudging one of them into Matt’s hands. “Sit up, you’re hogging the entire couch.”

“Well, it’s my couch,” Matt pointed out mildly, pulling his legs in to leave Foggy space on the other cushion.

“You’re weirdly selfish for a Catholic, you know that? Let’s go over the Ramsey case again. We need a list of ingenious arguments why a suitcase is more like a purse than a box.”

Cheap beer and shop talk on the couch with Foggy. Matt could honestly think of no better way to spend his Friday night. After Foggy found him in the mask, this kind of thing seemed like an impossibility. For both of them. Now, it was their new normal.

As was Foggy asking, when he finally got up to leave, “So, tonight? A beautiful woman or a horde of criminals?”

“When is the answer ever a beautiful woman?” Matt asked tiredly.

“Just let me dream.”

Matt made a face. “You dream of me with beautiful women?”

“No!” Foggy kicked at him. “I dream of you interacting with at least one person who isn’t me, a client, or a criminal trying to kill you.”

“Brett,” Matt suggested.

Foggy sighed exaggeratedly. “When he’s _not_ actively trying to arrest you?”

Matt glared at whatever happened to be in front of him. “Point.”

“Friends, Matt. You need friends. That’s all I’m saying.”

He made it sound so _simple_ that, for a second, Matt made the mistake of imagining what that would be like. Having someone other than Foggy to joke around with, to go to Josie’s with, to eat takeout with and listen to gripe about how Matt should really be more careful or he was gonna get himself killed….

And, yeah, that was the problem. The whole “friends” thing didn’t really work so well when one of the two had a secret as big (and dangerous) as Matt’s.

Besides, he knew what Stick would say.

Foggy tapped Matt’s leg. “Think about it, buddy.”

“Sure,” Matt lied automatically. “Have fun with Marci.”

Heaving himself off the couch, Foggy started putting his bag back in order. “Oh, I’m planning on having a lot more than fun. A _lot_.”

Matt groaned. “I don’t want to know.”

Foggy paused in the middle of zipping up his bag. “Seriously, though. Tonight?”

Tonight Matt was finally testing the rumors that international arms traffickers had chosen Hell’s Kitchen as their new preferred route into and out of New York, but he wasn’t stupid enough to tell Foggy that. Foggy would be too freaked out to enjoy his time with Marci—if he didn’t camp out in Matt’s apartment and try to argue Matt into staying home and calling the police or doing something equally pointless. (Didn’t Foggy realize that the cops with beats by the docks were getting paid off?) “Just patrol,” Matt answered.

“Okay, well…make good choices.” Foggy walked down the front hallway. “And _call me_ if you need help.”

“Will do,” Matt muttered, listening to the door swinging open and shut. He gave himself a second longer to stay on the couch, enjoying Foggy’s lingering scent, before getting up. He stretched, found that the stitches held pretty well (Foggy wasn’t as good as Claire, but he’d been practicing; the thought made something warm and happy squirm in Matt’s chest), and headed for the closet.

Matt hid himself behind a loading crate at the docks, buried in shadow. Tonight was about stealth, so he’d opted for the old black mask. If the docks didn’t have such a criminal element, Matt would probably enjoy spending time there even when he wasn’t fighting. It was so different for his senses than the rest of Hell’s Kitchen. The lap of waves, the dull ring of a bell somewhere. The smell of dirty water and exhaust still hanging in the air.

And tonight, there was another scent. Something new, and only a few hours old. When Matt learned the scents or voices of people who mattered to him, his brain often categorized the scents by a network of associations. It was a useful trick from Stick for quickly identifying different individuals. The list of networks was, unfortunately, a bit skewed to the negative. He had a network of associations for Foggy, obviously (cheap fabric softener from the dorms, ink from books and printers, takeout; his steady heartbeat and a good-humored voice with the slightest hint of sharpness beneath it) (it made Matt think of home with an unlocked door—comforting, welcoming, but a place that needed to be protected). He also had one for Claire (pomegranate and Mexican hot chocolate and blood, his blood; dry affection mingling with frustration in her voice) (she made him think of an island; once a place of refuge, now something unattainable).

But most of his association networks were for people he had to remember but wished he could forget. Gang leaders and particularly violent criminals, usually associated with gunpowder and various cigarettes and beers. It was worse with people like Turk—he smelled of gunpowder from illicit weapons, yes, but also of the perfumes of the young women he bought and sold. And it was just getting more and more common for arms traffickers and drug traffickers to branch out into human trafficking, using their routes and illicit connections to traffic people as well as merchandise.

Tonight, though, the new scent was different. A woman’s, by herself. Coffee and chocolate and pencil lead and gunpowder and pepper spray. He knew nothing about her, but he immediately thought a couch in the corner of a bookstore, somewhere peaceful and strangely familiar (aside from the gunpowder and pepper spray).

But he didn’t know her; she wasn’t important and he definitely didn’t need to start cataloguing her scent. Giving his head a quick shake to clear it, he frowned. The docks at this time of night were possibly the most dangerous place in the city for a woman alone. He wondered if she had any idea of the risk.

Foggy would probably ask him the same thing.

She was several feet away to his right, and she didn’t seem to be doing anything. Not looking for anyone, not using her phone. She was just waiting, tucked away behind some loading crates just like he was. Waiting for…something.

He should probably go tell her to leave. But doing so without making her scream or getting pepper sprayed in the face might be difficult. Before he could make up his mind on how best to approach, he heard other several motors drawing near.

Time was up.

Several vehicles rolled into the parking lot leading to the docks. Being blind was particularly frustrating at moments like these, when he couldn’t even pass a license plate or description on to Brett. Instead, he’d just have to get a little more personal.

Two police officers, identifiable by the distinct scent of the precinct, and six other men exited the vehicles and spread out. The officers stationed themselves at each end of the parking lot while the others milled around.

Though the woman’s heart beat faster, she wisely did not move.

Attacking now, even if Matt could take them all out, wouldn’t put a dent in the operation. And waiting for the ship to arrive wouldn’t do much good; it would be full of far too many thugs for him to take out on his own. But the vehicles were already here, so maybe he’d lucked out. They might contain some kind of evidence he could pass along to Brett. He could, at minimum, slash a few tires. It wouldn’t stop the syndicate, not even close, but it was a bigger inconvenience.

And more importantly, it was an excuse to unleash the devil. He drew his batons, remembering the last time he’d been here on mission—with Stick. _That_ mission had ended _terribly_, and yet…it had also been the first and only time he’d had anyone watching his back.

No point in thinking about that now. If he was gonna do this, he needed to do it before the ship arrived with more personnel. Standing silently, he picked his targets: two men fanning out towards the crates like they were coming to inspect the shadows.

All the more reason to act fast—before they found the woman, whose heartbeat raced faster than ever. But she still didn’t retreat.

Matt pressed himself to the wall of a crate at the back, heard footsteps approaching from the other side. He heard the low buzzing of flashlights, though it was impossible to tell how bright the beams were. Better to assume the worst.

The man was still about three feet away from the corner when Matt sprang, ducking low beneath the man’s line of sight and shooting forward, snapping his fist straight into the man’s throat to cut off a warning shout. Matt’s other hand snaked around the man’s wrist, breaking the rifle out of his grip. A quick elbow to the temple dropped the man to the ground with only a quiet _thud_.

He incapacitated the other scout next, in similar fashion, except this time he left the man conscious. He also held the man’s own firearm against his temple. This time, the fight was just on the other side of the crate the woman was using for shelter. Her breathing was panicked, but she still did not move.

What was wrong with her? This was the part where she was supposed to _run_.

Shoving her to the back of his mind, Matt concentrated on the man pinned beneath him. “Keep quiet and answer my questions. Who do you work for?”

The man was apparently not used to the feel of the barrel of a gun pressed against his temple, because he didn’t put up the fuss criminals normally did. Skipping all the lies and evasiveness, he blurted out, “The Brotherhood!”

“I want a real name,” Matt growled. “Who’s in charge?”

The man flinched. “That’s all I know, man, I swear. Won’t let anyone know his name, learned that lesson from the Kingpin.”

“Who?”

“Fisk, Wilson Fisk,” the man whispered quickly. “Kingpin of crime. The Brotherhood’s gonna take his place.”

He could try. “Who’re the other connections? What are other dropoff points?”

“I dunno, man!” The heartbeat was fast, but honest. “We only know what we needa know for our own locations, that’s it.”

“Tell me—” Matt cut himself off. A large shape was approaching through the water, stirring the waves, laden with voices. Too many voices. And so many weapons.

Matt was out of time. He knocked the man unconscious and tossed the gun aside, in the opposite direction from the woman…who’d probably heard that entire conversation.

At least the danger for her was no longer quite so imminent, and she must’ve picked a good hiding spot to have gone unnoticed this long. Maybe she was smarter than her behavior suggested. Assuring himself that he’d hate himself over this later, Matt headed towards the cops next, leaving her behind. He couldn’t cut off this dropoff point entirely, but he could still hit the gang where it hurt. Mooks were a dime a dozen in Hell’s Kitchen. Corrupt officers? Not so much.

The four men behind him seemed more focused on the incoming ship (more of a boat, really), so Matt was less bothered with stealth as he used threw his billy clubs at the cops, sure shots to the head before either one noticed. They dropped, but only the closest one was unconscious. Easy enough to remedy, though, with a kick in just the right spot to the cop at the other end of the lot.

Behind him, the woman was suddenly on her feet. Maybe she’d seen something? Now she wasn’t just on her feet, she was moving—finally getting out of here.

Why, though? Because she’d seen a threat or because she’d gotten what she came for?

Crouched over the unconscious cop, Matt ripped his glove off with his teeth and ran his fingers over the beveled nameplate.

O’Connor.

“Nice to meet you,” Matt whispered.

By the water, someone started shouting. New heartbeats joined the four men Matt had left standing. No chance to double back and check the other cop’s name, then. Snatching up his clubs, Matt took off into the night.

In the same direction the woman had taken.

Coincidentally.


	2. Chapter 2

Her scent was at the docks the next night, and the next. She kept coming _back_. It was getting harder to imagine that she didn’t know what was happening down there. So, what, she thought international arms dealers were _interesting?_

Was she working for them? Or was she a random citizen worried about the safety of Hell’s Kitchen, who happened to have a death wish?

“Matt?” Foggy’s voice cut into his thoughts. “What’s your take? I’m just saying it’s a good question.”

Dragging his focus back to the coffee shop where they were brainstorming for a case, Matt sighed. “We are not asking potential jurors their opinion of the Mets. It’s completely irrelevant.”

“It’s illuminating,” he argued. “It speaks to their character.”

“Foggy.”

“Fine. If you don’t like that question, we should ask if they prefer cats or dogs.” Foggy nudged him from across their table. “Because, you know, people who don’t like dogs have necessarily sold their souls.”

“I don’t hate dogs,” Matt said. Unconvincingly.

“You do, and it’s despicable and makes me question everything I think I know about you, but at least you also hate cats, so it kind of balances out.”

He didn’t hate cats, either; he just knew better than to try to coexist with anything with that much fur. Or anything that required a litter box. But Foggy was on a roll now, extolling the virtues of dogs while attacking the value of cats, and Matt didn’t bother interrupting to make a point that Foggy was well aware of anyway and simply choosing to ignore.

And then the front door opened and Matt was suddenly far too distracted to even think about cats or dogs. A woman was stepping inside, smelling of chocolate and pencil lead and, now, a hint of gunpowder.

(A cozy corner in a bookstore with a handgun in her bookbag.)

She made her way to the counter and placed her order: a plain coffee, but also a chocolate muffin. (Her voice made him think of the sun on his skin and that last, clear blue sky he’d seen before he never saw anything again.)

“Name?” the barista asked.

“Karen.”

Karen. Matt felt his lips curve.

As soon as she’d paid, she retreated to a table in the back corner and pulled out her phone.

He should not be listening in. He could practically hear Foggy telling him exasperatedly that repeatedly catching her scent at a crime scene did not constitute probable cause for spying on a private phone conversation. But Foggy didn’t need to know. Besides, she could be affiliated with the very people trying their hardest to make Hell’s Kitchen go up in metaphorical flames and very literal bullets.

(She wasn’t. His gut told him she wasn’t. He listened in anyway.)

“Hey, Ben,” she was saying quietly. “Yeah, I’ve been…working on it.”

He didn’t know her well enough to know for certain what that little pause meant, but he got the sense that she was leaving something out.

He heard a muffled sigh from the other end of the phone. “_What aren’t you telling me?_”

Matt’s level of smugness at having guessed correctly was probably a bit inordinate.

“Nothing!” she protested, and there was the _tha-THUMP _of her heart that told him she was lying.

Another sigh. “_Fine. I’ll pretend I trust you not to stick your nose in a hornet’s nest. What’ve you got?_”

“It’s bigger than we thought, Ben. It’s not just weapons traffickers. It’s the police.”

Ben did not seem surprised. “_Were you really thinking they could move this much without some cops turning a blind eye?_”

“Well—no.” She sounded flustered. A novice? Or just an optimist, an idealist? “But maybe we’re looking in the wrong place. Maybe it’d be easier to catch the corrupt officers than the—”

“_Catch?_” Ben echoed in disbelief. “_Karen, I _told_ you—_”

“Not catch!” Karen said hurriedly. “I mean, _I_ won’t catch them, just…drag them into the light. You know.”

“_The Bulletin can’t print unsubstantiated claims against unknown members of the NYPD,_” Ben pointed out, then added quickly: “_which is not permission for you to go getting into trouble._”

The Bulletin? What was she, a reporter?

“I won’t get into any trouble,” Karen said in a quiet, sweet voice that you just wanted to believe. “Promise.”

“_The last time I believed you when you made that promise, I hadda fish you from a cell for trespassing._”

Matt blinked. Maybe not a reporter. Maybe—

Something struck his shin under the table. Hard. He jerked backwards in his seat, spilling half his coffee in his lap. “Foggy!”

“Whoops,” Foggy said, not sounding nearly apologetic enough. “You zoned out so hard I could _see_ the radar beams coming out of your ears.”

“It’s not—it’s not radar, Foggy.” Matt sopped grumpily at his pants with a napkin. “Was that really necessary?”

Foggy held up his hands defensively. “I thought ninja skills and spilling coffee were mutually exclusive. I’ll cover the dry cleaning.”

Matt sighed. “You don’t have to do that. It’s my fault. I wasn’t paying attention.”

“Obviously you _were_, just not to me.” Foggy leaned closer. “So, what was it? The baristas gossiping about mobsters in the breakroom? A tourist outside planning on stealing the Declaration of Independence? The hot blonde talking to her boyfriend?”

“I don’t—what blonde?”

“Three o’clock. I mean, my three o’clock, your…crap, I don’t know how to flip the clock around.”

But there was only one woman in the coffee shop on the phone. Karen.

“So?” Foggy prompted. “What’s she saying?”

Well, Matt was trying to get better at the whole lying-to-Foggy thing, but he also didn’t quite feel comfortable spying on strangers for him, and he _also_ didn’t want to trigger another lecture on going after mobs. “I’m not telling you about someone else’s phone calls. And it’s not her boyfriend.”

Foggy hummed knowingly. “So what makes her conversation more interesting than me?”

Matt was never gonna get out of this. “It’s just, uh…” He dropped his voice to a nearly silent whisper. “I ran into her last night.”

Foggy _jumped_ in his seat. “You _saw_ her?” he yelped with searing innuendo.

“_No_. I mean last night when I was…you know.”

Foggy froze. “She’s a criminal?”

“I think she was investigating.”

“She’s a _reporter?_” Foggy yelped again, then flinched. “Don’t move, she’s looking this way.”

Matt gulped desperately at his coffee, trying to look normal.

“Okay,” Foggy said a second later, quieter. “Okay. But you realize how bad this is, right?”

Matt swallowed his coffee. “I think the fact that a local reporter figured out about the influx of illegal weapons is a good thing, actually.”

Foggy groaned like Matt was being deliberately obtuse. “I mean the fact that she’s hot and will also ruin your life.”

“Excuse me—_will?_”

“Allow me to predict the scenario. Matt Murdock goes out at night, hunting down bad guys. So does Hot Lady. Hot Lady gets into trouble with bad guys. Matt Murdock rescues Hot Lady. Hot Lady—”

“Stop calling her Hot Lady.”

“—cajoles Matt Murdock into showing her his pretty face. Matt Murdock acquiesces, because he has zero self-control.”

“Hey.”

“Hot Lady—”

“Foggy.”

“—disappears to write a brilliant article revealing Matt Murdock’s alter ego and Matt Murdock’s life as he knows it comes crashing down around his ears, ruining his best friend’s happiness at the same time.”

“Foggy.” Matt tried to convey the depth of his sincerity. “I won’t let that happen.”

“See,” Foggy sighed, “you say that _now_…”

Instead of going home and doing the paperwork waiting for him, Matt dropped by the precinct after the coffee shop, knowing Brett would be on duty at the desk. Given Nelson and Murdock’s involvement in Fisk’s arrest, Brett refused to believe that they were disconnected from Daredevil. What might have been dangerous had instead become a useful arrangement: Matt would pass Brett information, allegedly from Daredevil, and Brett would pass information right back.

“Murdock,” Brett greeted him today. “How’s it going?”

“Well enough, thanks. You?”

“I’m due for a certain civilian to come in complaining about her neighbor’s dog again in about…” There was a rustling sound as Brett checked his watch. “Forty-five minutes. Other than that, not too bad. What do you need?”

“Information. Have you guys heard of anything new happening down by the docks?”

Brett stiffened. “You know I can’t be talkin’ about that.”

“So something _is_ going on?”

Brett swore under his breath. “No.”

“Okay, so I guess there’s no harm in my going down there to check. By myself. At night.”

Yes, Matt hated it when people treated him differently because of his blindness…unless he was orchestrating it.

“Not even you could be that stupid.”

Matt lowered his voice. “Look, sergeant. I just need to know what you guys are aware of.”

“Why? So you can swoop in and defend those scumbags?”

“No. So I can…pass the info on to someone else.”

Brett sucked in a breath. “Meet me outside in fifteen.”

Matt flashed him an agreeable smile and made his way to the lot behind the precinct, where he occupied his time by listening in on the a conversation by two officers in a hallway. They both had kids and were debating the merits of two different kids’ shows. It was starting to get heated by the time Brett found him.

“Look,” Brett said immediately, hands on hips, “we both know who you’re talking about, so let me be clear. If you get caught up in the wrong thing ’cause you think you’re friends with a vigilante—”

“Just because Foggy and I used the evidence Daredevil secured to take down Fisk doesn’t make us friends,” Matt snapped.

“The point is, I’m not helping you if you get in over your head. Got it, Murdock?”

He was lying. Matt was so thrown by the fact that he was lying that he took a moment to respond. “Uh, yeah. Got it.”

“All right. So.” Brett leaned in a bit closer. “Yeah, we know there’s shady operations down at the docks. We’ve actually got officers down there patrolling. But they keep slipping through the cracks.”

Matt hesitated. “Are you…are you sure the cops can be trusted?”

Brett’s voice sharpened with annoyance. “After what went down with Fisk, I’m not sure of anything anymore.”

“And…does the rest of your department feel the same?”

It was Brett’s turn to hesitate. “No,” he said at last.

So there was no internal investigation. No one was looking into it. Matt nodded tightly. “Thanks for letting me know.”

“Hey,” Brett hissed. “It’s just a hunch. Don’t go telling Daredevil or whatever the papers are calling him now that he has free reign to take out anyone in blue he sees down there. Hear me?”

“’Course not,” Matt said smoothly.

“Good.” Brett still sounded stiff, like he wasn’t entirely convinced. Or maybe because he wasn’t entirely convinced Daredevil _shouldn’t_ take out any officers he found at the docks. Shrugging, he took a few steps back towards the precinct. “That’s all I’ve got for you. Tell your partner to stop giving Detective Willoughby doughnuts. Giving my mom cigars is bad enough.”

Matt suddenly remembered Foggy’s earnestness in wishing Matt hung out with more people who weren’t either clients or criminals. “Hey, Brett,” Matt called before he could talk himself out of it.

The sergeant turned around. “Yeah?”

“Do you, uh, wanna grab coffee sometime, or something?”

“Uh…” Brett cleared his throat and walked back to Matt, lowering his voice. “Listen, Murdock. You’re a great guy. Hell, half the time I think you’re more decent than Foggy. But that’s just it—I’m already friends with one defense attorney. I don’t really need to fraternize with any more of you.”

Matt raised his eyebrows, trying to hide how that stung. “Right. ’Course. Take care of yourself, Sergeant.”

He was at the docks again that night…and so was she. Karen. In fact, she’d once again beaten him to the site, although the fact that neither her heartrate nor her breathing changed suggested that she didn’t know he’d arrived.

He told himself she was a secondary concern.

Especially because tonight the cops had arrived early. Matt’s heart sunk; they were a man and a woman, not the same as the two he’d encountered before. Just how many cops were part of this?

He’d find out soon enough. Standing from his crouch, he drew his batons once again. The rest of the runners were due in just a few minutes, so he couldn’t afford to waste time. Besides, he wanted to send a message.

Which was why he didn’t bother waiting for the cops to split up before sliding out from the shadows.

Two heartrates jolted, and Matt threw his batons. He knocked the gun clean from the man’s hands, but his second baton hit the woman in the gut. She doubled over, gasping and swearing, but didn’t drop her weapon.

Too late to rethink things. Matt rocketed straight into the man, flipping forward at the last second to bring the heel of his foot crashing down on a pressure point where the cop’s shoulder met his neck. The cop yelled out and they went down in a heap with Matt on top. He tried to hit the temple with his elbow, but the cop thrashed beneath him and Matt ended up catching his nose instead. Blood sprayed everywhere. Disgusting and distracting and Matt almost didn’t realize the woman had recovered and was now cocking her gun.

He pushed away from the man as the gun fired and the bullet ripped at his right sleeve. Just a graze, but it burned like a white-hot knife. Clenching his teeth around a scream, Matt used his good arm to punch the man hard enough that he slumped, unmoving, but the woman cocked her weapon again.

_BANG._

Another gun went off from somewhere behind the crates, and the cop jerked in that direction, giving Matt the chance he needed to grab the baton rolling on the ground. This time his aim was true; he heard bones crack in her hands from the force of the hit. A second later, he’d dropped her to the ground beside her partner, still and limp.

Panting for breath, he shoved himself to his feet, pressing his left hand to his other arm where blood was dampening the torn fabric. But he only managed to take two steps back towards the crates before he was greeted by Karen hurtling in the opposite direction—straight towards him.


	3. Chapter 3

“We gotta get outta here,” she was saying even as she swept past him to crouch beside the cops. “Once everyone else gets here, they’ll know they’ve been made. We can’t take them all.”

“What—you—” Matt stammered, completely forgetting to set his voice at the Daredevil pitch as his head spun with pain from his arm and sheer surprise (surprise that he’d gotten shot, surprised that she’d helped, surprised that she was talking to him).

She stood back up. “McBride and Gonzalez,” she reported. “Remember those names, all right? By the way, did you catch the names of the two cops you took down last time?”

“O’Connor,” he answered, dizzy with the effort of keeping up with her. “But—”

“Okay, great, we gotta go.” Then, to his utter shock, she ripped off her scarf and thrust it at him. “Tie that around your arm or something, come _on_.”

Matt’s feet followed her while he pressed the scarf to his arm. She led him swiftly away from the docks, not stopping until they took refuge in an alley. He couldn’t hear anyone nearby, though he had no idea how she was so confident that she’d chosen a safe place.

“Here, let me.” Her voice softened suddenly as she held out her hand. “The scarf,” she explained when he just stood there, nonresponsive. “You can’t tie it one-handed, can you?”

“Uh…no.”

She plucked the scarf from his grip, but her motions became gentle as she wrapped it around the wound. She pulled it tight, then made an inquisitive noise.

“Tighter,” he said.

She complied, tying the scarf in a firm knot. “There,” she breathed. “You should be fine until you get to a hospital or something. Do you go to hospitals?”

“Are you a reporter?” he demanded as his brain finally, _finally_ switched back online.

Any softness to her instantly vanished. “Got a problem with the free media?” she shot back.

He really should stop being surprised by her, but he could count on one hand the number of people who’d refused to answer his questions when he was wearing the mask (two: first Claire, then Foggy, theoretically—not that he’d ever talked to Foggy in the mask, since Foggy was still a bit uncomfortable with Daredevil, as much as he liked to pretend otherwise). Deciding to stop playing nice, Matt lowered his voice to a growl. “You’re gonna want to tell me the truth, Karen.”

Her heart started racing even faster at the sound of her name, and she swore under her breath, but her voice was impressively steady when she said, “So I’m guessing you don’t actually need my answer.”

He did, actually, but he didn’t want her to know how little information he actually had. “You need to leave this alone.”

She wet her lip and he was gratified to _finally_ sense a hint of nervousness even as she defied him yet again. “Can’t.”

“Can’t,” he echoed warningly.

She lifted her chin. “I walk away, I don’t get paid.”

But there was a tiny jump to her heart. “This isn’t just a job for you,” he countered.

“What do you think a PI _does?_”

A PI? Matt gritted his teeth. Great. That was even worse than a reporter. At least reporters had…ethics. Sometimes. But he’d had more than one case torn apart by an opposing counsel that found some PI who couldn’t be bothered with things like privacy. Or the law, for that matter. He remembered her friend Ben talking about how she’d been arrested for trespassing and wondered what lengths she’d go to if she decided he was a problem. “Who hired you?”

She fell silent.

Matt really didn’t want to show all his cards, but he needed answers. “Was it Ben?”

“No,” she blurted out, sounding so panicked that he didn’t need her heartbeat to tell him she was lying. “I’ve gotta go. Don’t let that cut get infected. Um, bye.” She backed up several steps, then paused, almost like she expected him to chase her down.

Matt wasn’t entirely certain he could force her to answer his questions even if he wanted to. More unusual was the fact that he _didn’t_ want to. The feeling he felt towards her now was one he never experienced at night, except on the rare occasions when he ran into Brett.

Respect.

So he just raised his uninjured arm in a half-wave. “Bye.”

She stayed still a second longer. Probably studying him. Matt lowered his arm, grimacing internally at his own awkwardness. She didn’t respond; she turned her back to him and hurried up the alley and around a corner.

The only reason he didn’t follow her was because he didn’t want to hear what Foggy would have to say about it.

Although the graze bled a lot, it didn’t need stitches and he managed to keep Foggy from noticing the next day. Foggy was also, fortunately, too distracted with work to ask about any hot ladies Matt may’ve run into at night.

After work, Matt dropped by the precinct to pass the corrupt cops’ names on to Brett, who had a lot of questions over the fact that an anonymous source had asked for him specifically in order to give him the same names.

“Is Daredevil telling all his friends I’m the only honest cop on the force?” Brett demanded.

“I don’t think Daredevil has friends,” Matt deflected with a charming smile, trying to figure out why Karen would choose Brett over all the other cops.

Brett just snorted, clearly unconvinced, and muttered about extra paperwork, and told Matt to tell Foggy to stop bringing doughnuts to the precinct.

All in all, it was a pretty good day. Suspiciously good, anyway. And it just got better when Foggy texted to let Matt know he’d used his excellent people skills to finally convince a crucial witness for one of their cases to come in and give a statement. Matt was so busy thinking about that and wondering if he could’ve inveigled the same outcome that he didn’t notice the heartbeat (calm) and scent (amazing) until he was halfway up the stairs to his apartment.

Then he stopped dead.

She knew who he was. She’d figured it out. And now she’d _broken into his apartment_.

For a second, he seriously considered just turning tail and leaving. Foggy would probably let him spend the night, right? Pretending this hadn’t happen wouldn’t mean it _hadn’t_ happened, but it meant that he’d be wearing the mask when he confronted her about it.

But that would be cowardly. Not to mention selfish. The connection between his identities implicated Foggy and he needed to figure out as soon as possible what exactly she knew, when she’d known it, and what she’d done with that information.

So he sighed, straightened his tie, and let himself into his apartment.

_Now_ her heartbeat sped up, which told him two things. First, she’d been waiting for him long enough to calm down from the initial surge of adrenaline that necessarily came with committing a felony to find a dangerous vigilante. (No, to _threaten_ a dangerous vigilante. There was no way this wasn’t a threat.) Second, she was now appropriately scared. Good.

He took his time setting his keys on the hallway table, but he didn’t set his glasses there alongside them, hoping that she would, like Foggy had for one painful second, assume his blindness was a cover.

Her heart beat faster with every step he took down the hallway, and once he walked around the corner, it spiked.

“Matthew Murdock,” she said clearly. She was standing in the middle of his living room, holding two things in her hand. One was a gun, the same one she’d used before, held low by her thigh. The other was…a phone?

“What are you doing in my apartment?” he asked quietly.

“For the record,” she said, voice loud and only a little unsteady, “I’m recording this. Livestreaming, actually, to three different accounts on different social media platforms. Don’t worry,” she added when he tensed. “It’s not visible to the public. Yet. But the passwords to all the accounts are hidden in my apartment. I gave B—I gave my friend instructions on how to retrieve those passwords if I don’t call him every hour so he knows you don’t touch me.”

“You put a lot of thought into how to break into a blind man’s apartment.”

“But you’re not just a blind man.”

Great. Dropping his bag on the floor, he stepped forward, one hand spread out like he was reaching for the wall or the couch. “Listen, I don’t know who you are or what you—”

“Don’t come any closer. You’re Daredevil. The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen.”

He was on camera; he laughed. “Yeah, for a Halloween party once. You caught me.” He edged another step towards her.

She brought up the gun, aiming it at him but keeping it out of view of the camera (he was pretty sure). “Stop moving! Back up!”

What, was her possession of it illegal? Too bad he was blind. He kept wandering towards her. “Listen, ma’am. You seem very upset, but I’m sure we can—”

“_Stay back_.” She shoved the gun in her bag and picked up something else, something he hadn’t noticed because it didn’t smell any more like blood than did the couch it was resting on.

One of his red clubs.

And this time she was holding it right in front of the camera.

He froze.

“Okay,” she said shakily, lowering the club. “Okay. I’m gonna turn off my camera, and—and you’re gonna talk to me. But remember, if I don’t call my friend, your secret’s out.”

He clenched his jaw. “Got it.”

She pressed a button and slipped the phone into her pocket, now turning the club over and over between her hands.

“How did you find me, Karen?”

She winced at his use of her name. “I’m a PI. I told you.”

“_Why_ did you find me?”

“I’m a PI,” she repeated. “It’s what I do.”

“And what are you going to do with this information?”

“I don’t know yet,” she admitted honestly.

He raised his eyebrows. “I’m gonna need a bit more than that.”

“You’re dangerous. And—and what you’re doing is illegal.”

“Says the woman trespassing in my home with an illegal firearm.”

She flinched. So he was right about the gun. But her voice was surprisingly level when she said, “You’re dangerous, and a criminal, but you’re also helping people. That’s why you do this, isn’t it? And I…I support that. What you’re doing.”

He walked into his kitchen. “Then what the hell was all that just now?”

“Insurance.”

“Really,” he muttered, grabbing a beer from his fridge. On second thought, he grabbed two. “And your friend? Does he know who I am?”

She bristled. “It could be a she.”

“Ben, right?” He returned to the living room with both beers, heading towards her.

She took a step backwards, her little bit of calm disappearing fast. “Okay, hang on. You don’t get to lecture me on figuring out who you are when you know my name and Ben’s.”

“Does he know who I am?”

Karen hesitated. “No. not yet. I wasn’t kidding about the video, though.”

“I know.” He held out one of the beers.

To his surprise (he should stop thinking he could anticipate her), she accepted. “You want me to drink with you?”

“I want to drink,” he corrected her. “Felt rude to not offer.” Moving past her, he lowered himself on the edge of the couch. “Wanna sit?”

She hesitated again, her body shifting as she wavered between the couch right behind her and the chair that’d put the coffee table between them. When she finally perched on the other couch cushion, right on the edge like she was about to jump up again, he told himself not to read into it.

“So, Karen,” he said quietly, hearing her pulse jump again when he said her name. “What sets a PI after an international trafficking syndicate?”

“I told you before. I’m getting paid.”

He took a long pull of his drink. “Nope.”

“Excuse me?”

“You haven’t asked,” he said. At her small noise of confusion, he gestured at his glasses. “About how I do what I do.”

She sipped her beer, which he now could’ve sworn he could taste off her lips. “I figured the whole glasses thing was an act.”

He sighed, strangely disappointed. “Well, it’s not.”

“Wait, _really?_ So how—”

“My remaining senses are heightened. I can tell where things are, when someone’s moving. And if someone lies to me, their heartbeat tells me.”

“Holy shit,” she breathed.

“Comes in useful for interrogating criminals.” He inclined his head ruefully. “And witnesses.”

“You have a law partner,” she said suddenly.

He stiffened.

“Does he know? About…” She made a weird, vaguely karate-like gesture.

“He’s not part of this,” he snapped.

“I know,” she said quickly. “And I swear, I don’t wanna get him in trouble either. From what I can tell, the kinds of cases you guys take…well, we need more lawyers like that in Hell’s Kitchen.”

No waver in her heartbeat, none whatsoever. And her opinion of him and their failing little law firm shouldn’t matter, it really shouldn’t, but it _did_. “I appreciate the compliment,” he said lightly, “but that doesn’t mean I’ll represent you if you get caught the next time you break in somewhere.”

“Dang,” she murmured. He could hear the smile in her voice, like a fresh breeze sweeping through the entire room.

“So,” he said. “Your reasons for going after the traffickers, since your first answer was obviously a lie?”

She fiddled nervously with her bottle of beer. “I just wanna make this city a better place.”

The determination and frustration and hopelessness all mingling in her voice was so painfully familiar that Matt needed a second to regroup. “Lotta other ways to do that besides going after a gang.”

“They’re hurting people,” she said flatly. “The weapons they bring in, the kind of men who get their hands on them…it’s hurting people. And from what I hear, the next step is bringing in drugs. And then…they wanna move to human trafficking.”

He frowned. “How do you know that?”

“I don’t know for _sure_, but it’s a growing trend in international crime. And from what I can tell, these guys are reaching out to some very rich men, all of whom have some kind of scandal or charge involving solicitation of prostitution. Not that any of that will stop them from diving straight in again.”

It was true. Mostly because buyers of sex were much harder to catch than the prostitutes, and they usually pled down to some insignificant crime. If they were even charged at all. “Well, you’re right. I spoke once with one of their mid-level guys who confirmed everything you’re saying.”

“Any chance you recorded the confession?” she asked wryly.

He hadn’t ever thought of doing that. The video would be impossible to authenticate and therefore inadmissible in court…but it could still be enough to lead to probable cause. “Uh, no.”

She nodded slowly. Took another sip of beer. Nodded again. “Well, sounds like we have the same goal, and I’d say we make a pretty good team.”

“So?” he asked, not quite daring to hope.

She leaned forward with her elbows on her knees. “So let’s stop them.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again, A_Silver_Sun, for the awesome prompt! I hope you have as much fun reading this as I had writing it!


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